


Compatibility

by tristinai



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Deviant Connor (Detroit: Become Human), M/M, Markus is just very angry and sad, References to Character Death, SimKus, Unresolved Emotional Tension, alternating pov, ambiguous connor and hank references, dead carl timeline, minor hints of north and josh, north and markus brotp, or you can read it as platonic, our hearts are compatible, revolutionary!Markus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-02
Updated: 2018-08-02
Packaged: 2019-06-20 21:38:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15542676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tristinai/pseuds/tristinai
Summary: Left in the ashes of their violence, Markus and North begin to rebuild Detroit. But as they continue to recover the bodies of their dead and work to bring them back online, Markus is left reflecting on his tumultuous relationship with Simon and the price he paid for their 'freedom'.





	Compatibility

**Author's Note:**

> I came up with this when I was thinking about what a relationship between a violent/revolutionary Markus and Simon would be like. While I admittedly ship violent!Markus with North (just let them burn Detroit together!), I became inspired by the famous clip of Simon giving his 'heart' to Markus and decided to play with that timeline. In some ways, this story is 'canon compliant' but it re-imagines how the events of the game would have gone down if Markus and SImon had been lovers. It also flips between the 'present' (aftermath of the Battle for Detroit) and the in-game timeline. The only real pairing in this fic is Simkus but you can interpret North and Josh's interactions or Connor's references to Hank however you'd like. There are definitely spoilers for the game so if you plan on playing it, or trying the 'violent' path for Markus, maybe do that first before reading this.
> 
> This fic has not been beta read so all mistakes are my own. Happy reading!

Snow falls silently that late November evening, the only sound the crunching of his boots on the pavement as he makes his way to the rooftop, lost in his own troubled thoughts. Beyond the remains of _Jericho_ dipping above the water's surface, there's nothing remarkable about the abandoned harbor, adding to what the organics would consider the 'eerie' feel of a city once vibrant and full of life, now a ghostly remnant of a past only a few weeks old.

 

They had _won._ But even now, Markus questions at what cost their bloody victory came.

 

John. Josh. Si—

 

He shakes the thought from his head, begins his climb. He doesn't want to think of _him_ —he _can't_. Because every time he succumbs to the sorrow that eats away at his processor, he freezes, feels an almost foreign misting of his eyes, and the closest sensation he can understand as pain compress against his synthetic lungs, as if the very air is being squeezed from him.

 

Mourning Carl had been easier. Perhaps because he knew from the moment he was assigned to the elderly artist, Carl's passing was an inevitability. It hadn't made him any less angry at the humans for what they did to him—discarding him and treating Carl's death as if Markus had orchestrated it—but it made him more ready to accept that he could never go back to that life.

 

But this. This time, it's different.

 

“ _You don't have to do this,” Simon pleads with him, removing the detonator and placing it carefully on the wooden surface. “It doesn't have to end this way.”_

 

“ _The humans will never give us our freedom,” Markus says bitterly, already irate at what promised to be the beginnings of yet another argument. “The only language they understand is violence. I say, we take out as many as we can and let this whole damn city burn.”_

 

“ _You're starting to sound like North.”_

 

_And that only makes him angrier, Simon acting as if Markus and North are on some two person crusade to destroy everything. He glares at the other android, vitriol on the edge of his tongue but managing to hold back words that would wound more than Simon's rejection of their approach. He doesn't want to get into this, already regrets bringing it up._

 

“ _Promise me you won't use this,” Simon says._

 

_Markus says nothing._

 

“ _Markus.”_

 

_Unable to hold back any longer, Markus grasps Simon roughly, shoves him back against the table. It wobbles, violently, and the detonator for the dirty bomb topples off and it's by some twisted miracle that it doesn't go off for its mishandling. But Markus could give two fucks if the entire city burns around them. He wants to shut Simon up before their argument escalates, driven by white hot desire that has him kissing the blond hungrily, pressing into him, rewarded with a muffled gasp as Simon clings to him, kisseds him back with the same need._

 

_That's how all their arguments end. Why Simon stays._

 

“ _Our hearts are compatible.”_

 

Markus blinks away the mist in his eyes as he finishes his climb.

 

The chair is still there, along with the piano, both covered in a thick layer of snow. Markus' fingers had flown so easily over the keys the last he played. He recalls the pale hand that had joined his.

 

“Was it worth it?” he finds himself asking, hears another voice in his head because he has a feeling that if _he_ was here, he'd be asking Markus that same question.

 

His hand unconsciously goes towards his pocket, lingers over the reminder of the sacrifice that was made to win the Battle for Detroit: his damaged pump. He should submit it for repairs or scrap, give it to another android who may need it, but he's haunted with the price he paid for his reckless actions.

 

_It wasn't._

 

But he's known that since the last of the military retreated.

 

His CPU flashes a warning, reminding him of the cold front that's about to overtake the Midwest. The worst in the last three decades. He still has time before it reaches Detroit and the entire state is turned into an unforgiving winter wonderland that will make it harder for escaped androids to reach and stifle their efforts to recover bodies and parts from the landfills.

 

He seats himself at the edge of the snowy platform, stares out into the city skyline. Only the central core is lit up, the suburbs dark where all their defenses, and entry points, are set up. Thousands of androids have arrived to join their cause since the city's evacuation. Pretty soon, the American government will have no choice but to offer a fair treaty or to retaliate. And whatever they decide, Markus intends on being ready.

 

“ _Markus,”_ he hears inside his head.

 

He recognizes North's voice immediately.

 

“ _Get your ass back here. There's something you're gonna want to see.”_

 

_*_

There's a marked change in Jericho: there's energy, androids moving about to assist the wounded, an excitement in the whispers that bounce off the walls. Markus' words seem to cling to every corner of the old ship long after they had been said, revitalizing the units that had puttered about in abject misery only hours before.

 

“ _Our days of slavery are over. What humans don't want to hear, we will tell them.”_

 

A promise.

 

The delivery of the spare parts was only the beginning. But Markus needs only look down to the blood covering his hand to know that any victory will have a violent end.

 

He still hears the ringing of that shot, still feels the guard slump against him. Yet, the more he replays the visual in his processor, the more it satisfies a rage that's been broiling beneath the synthetic layers of his artificial skin, replaces the void left with Carl's passing.

 

Markus is angry. And nothing feeds the insatiable thirst of his anger like the violence he knows he's capable of unleashing.

 

Needing to get away from the chatter, he sits alone in an empty control room up on the platform. There's nothing more dangerous than being left alone with his thoughts, not with the adrenaline still coursing through him. He itches for more action, to take that next step towards their emancipation, but he's too distracted by the possibilities to focus on a plan of action.

 

He hears someone approaching, doesn't look up to acknowledge whoever enters the room. He doesn't need to as his uninvited companion takes that moment to make his presence known.

 

“What you did tonight, for Jericho...it's more than anyone else has done.”

 

It's that PL600 unit, the presumed leader of these lost and damaged units.

 

Markus lifts his head. “Someone had to do something. It's better than waiting around while half of us go offline.”

 

“I should be thanking you.”

 

“You should.”

 

It's not lost on him that with the evidence of his violence on his hands, Josh and Simon have failed to say anything resembling gratitude for the risk Markus took. It hadn't bothered him earlier.

 

There's a meaningful pause. Simon remains standing, a troubled look on his face but Markus rises: he's not about to put himself at the disadvantage, at an angle where the blond's quiet judgment settles like a weight on Markus' shoulders, makes him feel smaller. Standing at equal height, he can stare down the other android, his presence and posture planted in a dominating stance that sends the message he's not about to apologize for what _had_ to be done.

 

Those crystalline eyes flicker over the bloodied hand, balled into a fist, at Markus' side.

 

“There's always a choice,” Simon says, cryptically, as if Markus had relayed his thoughts through data transferred via an online connection.

 

It makes something inside of him snap. Though said quietly, it's the silent scrutiny that has the inklings of shame ripple beneath the righteous ire that's driven him since the warehouse. And for the first time all night, he feels regret.

 

But he's too proud to indulge the insecurity that makes him waver, answers with a not so gentle tugging of Simon's coat, pulling him into his space. Simon's LED flashes in shades of yellow, eyes darting across Markus' face but the words are out, firm yet too defensive, before Markus can even think of what he's saying, “It's us or them. And I have no illusions about whose side I'm on.”

 

There's blood now on the collar of Simon's coat, Markus smearing his wrath all over the leader of Jericho. The blond parts his lips, perhaps ready to say anything to deescalate the perceived threat but as his hand reaches and settles over Markus' wrist—coating his own fingers in red—the contact sends a trill dancing across Markus' skin.

 

He becomes only too aware of how close they are, how his uneven breaths are falling to Simon's lips, nose pressing to the blond's as his mismatched eyes stare down vibrant blue. The other android feels it too, his grip loosening to an almost gentle caress where it lingers on Markus' wrist.

 

Startled, Markus lets him go.

 

Simon stares at him, questioning, hands limp at his sides. But Markus is too caught up in the deafening pump of his regulator, the static that's making the tips of his fingers tingle, to offer any answer. He sees his bloody hand print on the blond's coat— _Mine_ —a mark of ownership that makes him illogically want to put his hands all over the PL600 unit, to claim every inch of skin he hides beneath his clothes. Let them both share in the embers of destruction he's about to unleash on this doomed city.

 

Markus takes a step back, needing the distance, feeling so overwhelmed with something he can prescribe no word to that it's stifling all logical thought processes. He makes to leave, a lion in the face of their enemy but a sheep in the presence of whatever this is, when Simon's words have him pause mid-retreat.

 

“Thank you.”

 

It's submission. It's what he wants to hear.

 

But somehow, it's not as satisfying. Not _enough._

 

He says nothing, leaves the room. He doesn't care if it makes him a coward.

 

*

“What is it, North?” Markus demands.

 

She makes a face. “No, ' _Good to see you, North. How've you been?'_ I swear, every time, it's, _'How are our numbers? How are the refugees doing? What's the latest report from the border?'_ We _won_ , Markus. The battle. Remember? Maybe start acting like it instead of playing Fearless Leader or disappearing to brood every night.”

 

Markus glares at her.

 

North glares back, crossing her arms over her chest.

 

“I'm not—,” he's about to say ' _brooding'_ but thinks better of it. “Are you gonna tell me why we're at the main _Cyberlife_ store?”

 

She sighs, stepping aside to let a caretaker android by. After the humans had abandoned Detroit, the _Cyberlife_ stores and facilities had been converted into hospitals, first to tend to the wounded from the battle and later to help refugees or to put shut down units back online, if they had the parts and means to do so. Resetting offline units meant the erasure of the android's memories and personality but if it meant adding to their growing numbers, the effort was worth it.

 

“We've had more patrols out searching the landfills and camps on the outskirts of the city,” North says, indicating for Markus to follow her.

 

He ignores the sounds of the androids communicating around them, most over the online chatter, many expressing disbelief and awe at his presence there. He's not had many days where he's in the mood to give motivational speeches or converse with his people, but he manages a polite nod or two as he follows North to the back.

 

“So we've recovered more parts? Put more units online? This is hardly news, North.”

 

She makes a sound of impatience as a door slides open and they enter a corridor. At least they're out of the main entrance, where Markus feels too many eyes on him for his comfort. It still unnerves him how everyone expects him to be this symbol when, really, he's just an android who was done with taking the humans' shit.

 

“I know things have been hard since Simon—”

 

Markus grabs her wrist, stops her. He knows his grip would be enough to crush bones if she wasn't a synthetic but it's the first time anyone's said _his_ name around Markus and Markus is not ready to hear him spoken in the past tense.

 

“Don't,” Markus warns her. “Not now.”

 

She takes back her wrist, a flash of anger in her eyes. It's why he knows her so well, can read her almost better than he was ever able to read Carl: he sees that same fire he has within her. And all it takes is a spark to roar into a flame that will leave a trail of ashes.

 

“Then _when,_ Markus? Because it's been weeks and you've shut everyone out. You need to talk about this some time.”

 

“Is this why you dragged me out here? To bring _this_ up?” Markus demands.

 

“He was my friend, too. You don't get to be the only one who misses him.”

 

He can think of a million things to say, to remind North that for all that she 'cared' about Simon, she had been the first one to suggest putting a bullet in him back at the Stratford Tower. But he knows that the war has made both of them do thoughtless, reprehensible things—things that fill both of them with regret—and bringing up her suggestion would only have her list the many ways in which he fucked up and lives were lost.

 

They both stare each other down. It's North, who doesn't have the patience to stay angry with him long enough, who relents first. “It wasn't just to try to get you to talk about him. Our people found something when they were scouting for parts.”

 

One of the doors to what was once a storage room slides open. North steps in first, pulling back a curtain to reveal makeshift tables set up along one end of the wall, machines in between used to reset the androids. Only a handful of tables were in this room and at the moment, two of them are occupied.

 

His mismatched eyes fall to the first figure, his retinal scanner identifying the unit. A PJ500. But he doesn't need the unit's serial number to know whose face he's looking at, the name spilling in surprise off his lips.

 

“Josh.”

 

“They found them. At the site of the battle.”

 

_Them?_

 

His pump regulator—Simon's pump regulator—thrums loudly in his chest as Markus glances at the other android. He could be shown a lineup of PL600 androids but none of them would look the way Simon does—none would smile shyly in a way that made those blue eyes shine in warm hues...none would grasp him and whimper his name when Markus laid his hands on him, mouth hot as it nipped along the blond's jaw...

 

None would, or could, ever be _his_ Simon.

 

Markus is by the offline unit's side in a heartbeat, grasping the lifeless hand, vision blurring as he fails to even utter the android's name. With each pumping of his regulator, he feels another part of him break as he stares down into those unseeing, clear blue eyes, squeezes Simon's hand as if to will the unit back online. Though logic tells him it's fruitless, he's unable to heed his own processing, lost in the guilt of his survival, one he hasn't earned. Not with the way he had treated Simon.

 

_Why?_ He has asked himself many times.

 

Yet, he knows the answer.

 

He nearly startles when he feels North grip his shoulder.

 

“We can bring them back,” she whispers.

 

*

 

He aims the gun, grip steady, finger firm on the trigger. The snow is falling around them, small flakes that touch down on the rooftop tainted with the blood of the android bleeding out beneath him. North's words ring in his head and he knows what must be done, knows that this is the only way.

 

“I'm sorry, Simon,” Markus says, voice cold. “I don't have a choice.”

 

He's expects hurt, betrayal. He expects Simon to call him out for becoming no better than the humans. Markus has yet to take android life—the one line he didn't want to cross, even with the trail of organic bodies his actions have left behind so far—but it's the one he's about to.

 

Anything for the cause.

 

But Simon's eyes are cool like steel and there's not even resignation in them but defiance. Thirium dribbles from his lips yet his voice is firm, as if he's looking into the face of death and has decided, _Not today._

 

“There's always a choice.”

 

The hand holding the gun, the same that had been bloodied the night before, shakes. He remembers it—a moment—smooth fingers on his wrist as the wrath of his ire raged in Markus' eyes, a tender caress that tamed the flames instead of unleashing the full fury of their embers. Simon's lips parted, his breaths steady as Markus' tumbled off his trembling lips.

 

He hesitates.

 

“Markus,” North calls, urgently.

 

And Markus is brought back to the urgency of the situation, to the necessity of decision. But his decision was made the moment Simon had to open his damn mouth.

 

He hands the gun, handle first, to the injured android, ignoring the withering look of disapproval from North. It's stupid, illogical—even if Simon hides now, there's no guarantee he won't bleed out anyway—and every moment they let Simon live puts Jericho at risk.

 

But Markus knows that if he takes Simon's life, it's the one thing he will never come back from.

 

*

“What parts do we need?”

 

The MP600 and RA300 units—Tessa and Malcolm—continue to scan the bodies on the tables. Tessa was designed to assist medical practitioners, her programming meant for organics but, similar to Lucy, she's applied her methods to helping injured androids. Malcolm, on the other hand, is a repair unit who worked for _Cyberlife_ and is designed to bring damaged units back online.

 

Both exchange a look, silently relaying their assessments and seeking compatibility in their diagnosis.

 

“The PJ500—”

 

“His name's Josh,” North interrupts. Her fingers linger near Josh's, not quite touching.

 

“Josh,” Malcolm continues, “has taken extensive damage. His audio processor will need to be replaced and he will also need a thirium transfusion.”

 

“The most pressing repair is replacing both of their pump regulators,” Tessa adds. “We have a shortage of regulators and a long waiting list of offline units in need of new ones.”

 

“Move them to the top of the list,” Markus demands, not caring if he was grossly abusing his influence by asking that. “They're the ones who found Jericho—who gave all of us a safe place when we were just slaves.”

 

“It's...not that simple,” Malcolm says. He pauses, blinking as he scans their internal databases and relays that information to Markus. “As you can see, the PJ500—Josh—has compatibility with many of the regulators in a lot of the newer models. We could, feasibly, have him online within the hour.”

 

“Then do it.”

 

“He won't be the same,” Tessa reminds North.

 

“I'm not telling you to bring him back. I'm telling you to put him online.”

 

Both Tessa and Malcolm hesitate, turn to Markus. It's violating the impartial system they have in place, prioritizing Josh because of his connection to Markus over the many other androids hoping to reset lost loved ones, but Markus doesn't care. He can deal with the fallout later.

 

He nods and returns his attention to Simon.

 

The answer's already there in streams of data before either Tessa or Malcolm can verbally confirm what he already knows.

 

“He's in working condition. All he's missing is a pump regulator.”

 

“But, we don't have one that's compatible with him,” Markus says.

 

Dread leaves his insides churning.

 

“This PL600 is an older model, discontinued by Cyberlife after the first deviant,” Malcolm says. “Most have been upgraded since then and run on a different pump. Even if we found an offline unit with a working regulator, there's a good chance it won't be compatible with him.”

 

Markus brushes his hand over the place Simon's regulator sits, pumping thirium to all his components. The solution is there, in his chest.

 

“Then let's give his back to him,” Markus says.

 

“Markus!”

 

He ignores North's protest, presses on. “I'm more compatible with the parts we've been salvaging from the landfills. We're more likely to find one I can use.”

 

North eases at that. “So, we find you a new one and you give your boyfriend back his heart? Sure he's not going to slap some sense into you once he wakes up?”

 

Markus feels thirium rushing to his cheeks. He's never used that word before, never allowed himself to think of Simon as being anything more. But instead of protesting, he gives her a nonplussed look. “Simon did what needed to be done to win the war.”

 

North smirks, sadly. “I'm sure that's the _only_ reason he gave it to you.”

 

For a moment, Markus is there, gunfire going off around them, thirium dripping onto his fingers. He's shutting down, fast, ready to take his final breath when he feels the removal of his pump, a calm but familiar voice, ignoring all his protests, sliding a working regulator into his chest...

 

He grips the edge of Simon's table to keep his hand from shaking.

 

_You know, you could give him yours._

 

_North—_

 

_Don't even start with me, Markus,_ she communicates to him. _And don't try telling me that the broken regulator you've been carrying around isn't the one he pulled out of you._

 

He reaches a hand into his coat, touches it. Each time he's held it, the memory of what Simon did—of their final moments together—is so raw that it's like he's reliving it. Like he's watching in horror as Simon shuts down again. And again. And again.

 

_We've used up all the spare regulators at the CyberLife tower. And with this storm, it can take weeks before we get back to salvaging,_ North argues. _Do you want to see him again or not?_

 

He pulls the regulator from his coat, hands it to Malcolm. “Would this do?”

 

It's strange, seeing the regulator he used for nearly a week fit into someone else's hand. In many ways, Markus has come to think of it as his damaged 'heart' and all that the bullet in it has come to symbolize.

 

“It's from a WE900 unit so it's compatible. The damage it's taken makes it inoperative but I can repair it,” Malcolm says. “If you don't mind waiting a few days.”

 

“Just bring them back.”

 

“They won't be the same,” Malcolm reminds them. “They won't remember you.”

 

“Not at first,” North says, quietly. Her hand slides against Josh's and she grasps it, squeezes it. “But they will.”

 

*

 

It's disbelief that's left him frozen in place, staring at the android in front of him. Simon's in the same state they left him—dried thirium on his chin, gait unsteady from the injury on his leg. But he's here, standing in front of Markus, lips moving to say the words that won't come.

 

There's that hesitation once more that keeps Markus from breaking the silence, from inching forward to grasp the blond, touch him, prove that this isn't some error in his optical unit making him imagine those he believed dead. But he's done with being a coward, with being indecisive, fearful of plunging headfirst into the many possibilities, to be allowed to _want_ something for his own.

 

He closes the distance, determined, grabs Simon roughly and instead of pulling him forward in a show of proud bravado, he's wrapping his arms around the other android, clinging tightly so that if this is an error in his visuals, this delusion will fade between his hands. It's when he feels Simon return his embrace, the blond's exhales grazing Markus' neck as he rests his head on his shoulder, that Markus knows this is no illusion. Simon's here. In his arms.

 

His pump beats erratically, lips finding the crook of Simon's pale neck. It's instinctive—perhaps a module in the unexplored parts of his programming that plants the thought there, creates the sudden oral fixation he has with the blond's skin—but then he's brushing his lips against the synthetic flesh and something explodes in his chest when Simon sighs in response. It's that same sensation from the other night, leaves his mouth tingling, has him deciding that he _likes_ the taste of Simon, though he has a limited concept of taste.

 

He lifts his head and Simon does the same, blue eyes as wild and confused as the fluttering sensation in Markus' chest. Markus knows he has so much to answer to, so much to apologize for, but when his gaze drops to Simon's parted lips, he makes his decision.

 

Markus kisses him. Rough, hungry, unpracticed. Mouth moving against his until it feels _right_ , has him trembling with a sensation he wasn't aware he could experience.

 

They back into something solid and Markus realizes, belatedly, that he's pressing Simon against the corridor wall. But there's a gasp that's half moan trapped on Simon's tongue when Markus's own parts the blond's lips, licks inside of his mouth, and he decides that exploring how much he likes this is far more important than anything outside of them. Let him have this selfish moment of feeling Simon wiggle against him, shifting his thigh in just the right way that it makes those trills burrow deep in Markus' core.

 

Fingers entangle his, grasping his hand, and that's when he feels the synthetic skin retreat, Simon offering to connect with him. Markus makes a sound as his lips leave the blond's, eyes darting down to their joined hands. There's so much inside of him, so much he can share: _Anger. Helplessness. Vengeance. Fear. Lust._

 

Simon's gaze is intense, meaningful, patiently waits for Markus to consent.

 

But there's too much that Markus isn't ready for anyone to know: how good it feels to kill every human who stands against them; how helpless and lost he is, cast into a position he had never sought; how much he loves that he has the power to bring this city to its knees and make all of them **pay.**

 

Simon...with his shy smile, warm eyes, and honest demeanor. Who trusted Markus to lead and give their people purpose when all he could ever offer was sanctuary.

 

Who Markus had been ready to kill for his zealous cause and part of him still believes that it would have been the right choice.

 

He feels fingers tenderly caress his chin and he immediately steps out of Simon's attempt at comfort, drops the android's hand like a human would a hot stone. Hurt flashes in Simon's eyes but Markus averts his gaze, is already shaking his head as he backs away.

 

“I can't,” he mutters.

 

And he's gone, walking away before he has to see the fallout of his cruelty painted in Simon's expression.

 

It's better for both of them if he walks away.

 

*

 

“Josh, it’s me: North.”  
  
He blinks, glances between Markus and North. But there’s no recognition in his eyes, only the confusion that often follows a reset.  
  
North’s uneasy smile disappears. She tries not to look so disappointed but it’s clear that she had hoped his wipe wasn’t complete.  
  
“Jericho. Do you remember Jericho?”  
  
Josh doesn't know what she means and directs his attention to Markus. “I’m sorry. I don’t remember either of you.”  
  
“Jericho’s where we hid. Before Detroit was evacuated,” North says. “This is our friend, Markus.”  
  
But the more she explains, the more lost the android appears. So she extends her hand, offers to connect. Josh hesitates before he brings his palm to hers.  
  
It takes only a second but in that time, Markus knows North is sharing her memories of Josh: of before Markus arrived, the time they hid away from the humans, up until the final battle. Every argument they had, how their ideologies always had them splitting hairs over the right course of action, it was all there, stored away in North’s CPU with the crisp clarity of scenes being compiled for video.  
  
When they break the connection, Josh still seems uncertain but a bit more at ease, not as reluctant to trust what they are telling him.  
  
“We fought against them. The humans,” he starts. “And that was how I got deactivated?”  
  
“You were shot in the battle,” Markus says.  
  
“We found you at the site and had some of your parts replaced,” North adds. “You’ve been offline for three weeks.”  
  
“I see.”  
  
But it’s obvious that he’s still not responding with the same familiarity of an old friend. All he’s been given is an unclear picture—a glimpse of who he was, how North remembers him—from the connection. It’s no different than showing a patient with severe memory loss home footage of the life they once had.

 

The next day sees little improvement. Josh remains quiet, polite, but not quite sure how to act or respond to anything North or Markus says to him. He's not the same and the more they try, the less convinced Markus becomes that they will ever go back to being how they were.

 

It's some time after Connor arrives, updating them on the city borders and their current numbers. With the snow storm raging outside, not even their military crafted units are able to navigate out into the cold and all efforts at salvaging parts has been halted.

 

“Once it dies down, we'll need to send search teams, in case some of our people are trapped out there,” Markus tells him.

 

“Agreed. I have a contact who says more and more androids have been trying to reach Detroit,” Connor says. “We've only had 19 make it to our check points in the last 24 hours.”

 

Markus frowns. He doesn't like those numbers, not when their numbers have increased by nearly a hundred each day since the evacuation of the city.

 

“If there's anyone out there, I'd like to help find them.”

 

All three of them look at Josh in surprise.

 

“I know I'm only a PJ500 but I want to help,” Josh insists. “It's the right thing to do.”

 

North's lips quirk in a half smile. “Markus?”

 

He doesn't like the idea of sending Josh out so soon after being put back online but it also doesn't surprise him. There are some things that not even a reset can change.

 

“Connor's the best we've got. You can go with him the next time he leads a search party,” Markus says.

 

Connor leaves shortly after, Josh offering to go with him to the city border and learn more about the security lines they've set up. When North attempts to take his hand, he reluctantly accepts, squeezes back. But as they depart, her smiles drops.

 

_He needs time, North,_ Markus tries telling her.

 

“I thought it would be different,” she whispers. _Because it's me._

 

He's not certain if she had intended to share that with him but he hears it through their private channel.

 

*

 

He stands at the edge of the platform, stares out at the many hues of red and gold painting the sky. He thinks of Carl, brush moving across canvas, blending the shades until he captures beauty frozen forever in acrylic. Carl would see an evening like this and with his steady hand, create something bright, vibrant, filled with hope. All Markus sees is ominous brimstone raining down from the heavens.

 

He looks down at his sleeve, a tentative finger reaching to trace the faint blood splatters that stain the material, his trophy from today's demonstration.

 

The many who lie dead deserve it. He can't bring himself to shed any tears for his oppressors.

 

_They will pay. Every one of them. For what they've done to us._

 

He only regrets that some of their own had fallen in the protest that had turned violent.

 

“It's a nice view.”

 

His voice is a sound more pleasing than the sonatas Carl used to play on his piano, has something inside of Markus reacting to each inflection, leaving him heady with a sensation he can't describe. But for all that he feels internally, Markus responds with a stiffening of his posture, voice edged in irritation.

 

“It is. It's why I come here: gives me time to think and get away from everything.”

 

Everything about his tone says _Go away_ while inside, he secretly hopes Simon will stay.

 

He hears foot steps behind him. But they don't come towards the platform, instead, making their way towards the piano.

 

“North said I'd find you up here,” Simon remarks.

 

A few notes ring in the air and Markus identifies the piece immediately, Beethoven's _Moonlight Sonata._

 

“I tell her I need some time alone and she invites half of Jericho up here,” Markus says, partially under his breath.

 

But Simon's audio component picks it up, his finger pausing on the next key. The music stops. “North and I don't make up half of Jericho.”

 

No...but they make up half of the part of Jericho that's come to mean the most to Markus after these last few days. But Markus is too proud to admit that.

 

When he gives no response, Simon continues playing.

 

It's precise, clinical. Simon plays the way the song is meant to be played by a machine: without error but without _feeling._

 

It wasn't until after Carl's death that Markus understood the difference.

 

“Not like that,” Markus says, approaching from behind Simon.

 

He stops with his chest nearly pressed to Simon's back, reaching around to lay his hand on top of the blond's. It feels smooth, unblemished by the blood that always finds a way to dirty Markus' own and he's ashamed to be allowed to soil Simon's synthetic flesh with his sins. His hand fits perfectly over the other android's—a simple result of design by their organic makers—but Markus wishes he could ignore logic, accept that some unique force is what makes them fit together.

 

He presses Simon's finger down, a single note ringing in the air, haunting in its vibration. Simon's hand twitches underneath Markus', attempting to move to the next key, but Markus holds it there, lets the note drag a near imperceptible millisecond longer before his fingers follow Simon's to the next. And then the next. Each note they play moans a melancholic sorrow that cuts into the loss Markus has yet to address, the grief that he's buried to become the leader Jericho needs him to be.

 

Carl loved Beethoven.

 

Their hands stop moving.

 

“Markus...”

 

Markus takes a step back, creates the physical barrier he needs through the space between them. There's a wetness on his cheeks but he pretends it's not there.

 

“Why were you looking for me? Has something happened?”

 

Back to business.

 

Simon looks at him with concern. “You took off after we returned from the protest. I thought—”

 

“Yeah, well, you found me. And as you can see, I'm fine.”

 

But he doesn't look convinced, doesn't respond to the unspoken command to leave. Though Markus says it sharp enough to cut glass, Simon stands his ground.

 

“You don't look fine.”

 

A bitter laugh. “I don't think there's a way to 'look fine' when one's in a war.”

 

“There doesn't have to be a war,” Simon says, his voice quiet. “There's still time. We can—”

 

“Ask them _nicely_ to give us our freedom?” Markus interrupts, his tone scathing. “They hate us. And not sure you've been keeping count, but we've killed enough of them that they've decided to stop listening. Not that they even tried to listen to us back when we did things 'peacefully'. Remind me, how did hiding out in Jericho work for you before I came along?”

 

It's meant to hurt, carve into wounds he can't see but knows are there. There's a flicker of sadness in Simon's eyes and Markus knows he's struck a nerve.

 

But if Markus is too proud to show his scars, Simon's too defiant to take his blows without a fight.

 

“You'll get all of us killed if you carry on like this,” he warns him. “And there will be none of us left for the freedom we're fighting for.”

 

“It's better to die fighting than to hide in the shadows. So long as one of us remains in servitude, I will fight to free them or die trying. Someone has to.”

 

“It doesn't have to be you,” Simon insists. “We don't need to charge into every fight. What if we lay low, wait for more of our people to come to us? Once there's more of us, we'll stand a better chance.”

 

“There isn't time!” He feels frustrated, turns on his heel and paces towards the other end of the rooftop, hands clenched at his sides. He hears Simon follow but doesn't look back at him, half afraid at what he'll do if he looks into those blue eyes a second longer. “I'm not some coward. I'll not hide while—”

 

“I don't want you to die!”

 

His feet stop moving. There's tension between them, thicker than the blood Markus has spilled. His tongue sits heavy in his mouth, every nihilistic retort waiting to be uttered, cement the path he's paved that he can see only ending in his demise.

 

But he's silenced by the desperation in Simon's confession and the tips of his fingers are numbed by the memory of his touch, a reminder of the light he's found even as the sun finishes setting and plunges the city into darkness.

 

He turns and he sees a look so forlorn on Simon's face, it shatters the anger he's about to unleash.

 

“I don't want you to die,” Simon says again. He hesitates, stares down at the ground between them, uncertainty prolonging the silence before he finds the courage to continue. “When you charged at them today, I thought...”

 

He shakes his head, still won't meet Markus' gaze.

 

Markus swallows thickly. “I'm still here, Simon.”

 

“But you won't be if you keep running into every fight like that.”

 

“What would you have me do? Let _them_ win? You know I _can't_.”

 

“Then I won't let them take you from us!”

 

Markus is surprised to see the hear the determination in Simon's voice, is just as shocked to see the heat in his eyes. It startles him and he tries to protest because he'll be damned if someone else throws themselves in the line of fire for him. “You can't just—”

 

His protests are cut off as he's shoved backwards, hitting the piano. The keys clang loudly as one hand reaches back to steady his balance, the other wrapping around Simon's waist, pulling the android closer as he kisses Markus. It's almost reckless the way he claims Markus' lips, the act alone saying everything he's failed to say, all that Markus refuses to hear.

 

When he pulls back, his breaths spilling unsteady off his lips, Simon presses his forehead to Markus'. They say nothing, simply hold each other, hidden in the shadows of that rooftop, a momentary calm in the storm.

 

“They won't take you,” Simon promises, “Not while I'm still here.”

 

And if Markus had known what was to come, he would have pushed Simon away instead of succumbing to the soft lips that found his once more.

 

*

 

_"...winds have reached 60 mph and there's already a reported 130 deaths along the northeastern coast. What meteorologists are now calling the worst blizzard in US history has already arrived in the Midwest and the crisis has prompted President Warren to declare a national state of emergency. Many areas are without power and FEMA is unable to rely on android units to assist in search and rescue efforts since most were destroyed after the Detroit crisis, the rest powered down until a solution to the ongoing debate about android liberties continues to trouble congress. With public opinion remaining divisive, many are questioning if the government has done enough or if Warren's administration was too hasty in the counter-measures used to suppress other pro-android rights movements that have erupted outside the state..."_

 

Markus blinks, shuts off the news station he's been following through his online application. He had never cared much for public opinion, learning early on that relying on the sympathies of their oppressors would be a lost cause, but he's kept up with news reports and social media since Detroit's evacuation, if only to know how his people are being treated outside the state of Michigan. The irony of the government continuing to debate a solution for Detroit when FEMA could be using androids to assist in rescue efforts along the coast is not lost on him.

 

"It's gotten worse overnight!" Connor shouts over the winds hitting the structure of the makeshift barriers they've set up along the west end of Detroit's urban center. "There's no visbility! Even with our SQ800s, there's no way we're finding anything out there! Sending them out would be suicide!"

 

Markus and Josh follow him towards the nearest shelter, where a base of operations has been set up for that check point. They walk by the armored units, a mix of SQ800 and TROJAN androids, whose design makes them able to withstand harsh conditions. They nod to Markus as they continue their patrol route.

 

“I don't like the idea of leaving androids out there to die!” Markus says, and then decides to switch to a mental channel because it's better than exacerbating his voice box. _But I also don't see the need in sending out more of our own to die in a storm._

 

_Most models start shutting down when exposed to temperatures lower than 15_ _°_ _F. Anyone who's not found shelter will freeze before we can get to them,_ Connor reasons.

 

_We can't just sit back and do nothing,_ Josh argues.

 

They reach the building and step inside, leaving behind a trail of powdered snow at the entrance. All three of them are heavily bundled up—not because they can “feel” the cold but to prevent the thirium in their bodies from freezing.

 

“We're waiting it out,” Markus says, firmly. “No one's to go out there, not until we know it's safe enough for our search parties. There's enough of us dying every day outside Detroit; let's not add to the body count.”

 

He can tell Josh wants to argue with him some more and it makes him want to smirk, seeing Josh return to his old self. How many times have they been here, nearly at each others' throats as North and Markus acted on their violent impulses? It had always been infuriating but now it was welcome to have Josh back and willing to disagree instead of blindly following, as so many tended to do with Markus. But though he doesn't like it, Josh reluctantly sees the reason in what Markus is saying.

 

“Fine. We wait. But I want to be on the next team you send out.”

 

“You will be,” Markus promises.

 

Josh leaves the two of them, going to where they've set up scanners meant to detect anything within 30 miles of the city. There are some androids who acknowledge Josh with a respect he's not accustomed to yet, those from Jericho who remember him better than he can remember himself. For others who joined after the battle, they view Markus, North, Josh, and Connor with a reverence that Markus still finds unnerving, as if they are walking among legends, gods.

 

He once loved having such power at the tips of his fingers. Now, he sees it for the bane it really is and not a day goes by he isn't ready to crumble beneath the crippling pressure of being the face of their movement.

 

“I have the reports you asked for,” a familiar voice says.

 

It's been so long since Markus has heard _his_ voice, he nearly mistakes the PL600 for him. It's those same blue eyes, pale features, and blond hair that throws him off, coupled with longing and desperation that has him wanting to believe this is Simon.

 

But there are other small details that strips him of the pipe dream of a reunion: the way this PL unit stands rigid, the silent awe at which he regards Markus—absence of familiarity and history. _His_ Simon would never look at him like that.

 

Connor and the PL600 stare at each other and Markus sees their LEDs blink as they transfer information. “Received. You're dismissed.”

 

The PL600 leaves to whatever other task he has been assigned to but not without first taking another quick glance at their leader.

 

It takes a moment for Markus to shake the longing that has him wanting to follow.

 

“There's pressure for President Warren to meet with you and reach some sort of agreement,” Connor tells Markus. “Not everyone agrees with what we've done but there are still those who support us.”

 

“I'm not meeting with anyone. Not unless making Detroit an android sanctuary is on the table,” Markus answers.

 

“Humans are...complicated. They're scared of what they don't understand and often react illogically, even when presented with a clear solution. They also seem to perceive anyone of superior skill a 'threat'. It can be difficult to reason with them.”

 

“And yet, you've managed to find yourself one just like that.”

 

“My relationship with Lieutenant Anderson is...difficult to explain,” Connor decides, getting that troubled look on his face that Markus has come to learn means the android is trying to decipher something that goes against his initial programming.

 

“But maybe you don't need to understand it. Maybe it is what it is,” Markus says. He gets a rather somber look on his face. “I think I've forgotten what it's like to be around _them_.”

 

Connor gives him a half smile and places a comforting hand on Markus' shoulder, a gesture that seems so uncharacteristic of the detective, Markus is certain he's learned it from his human companion. “It's not too late to change that.”

 

Before Markus can respond, he receives a message from Malcolm.

 

_It's ready._

 

*

 

It's the early hours, with dawn still a ways off, when the survivors take refuge in an abandoned church. Jericho is now at the bottom of the harbor, lost to the cold and unforgiving waves that separate Detroit from it's northern neighbors. Along with it, the security that their haven had offered to the androids who had escaped the bonds of their captors.

 

Markus does his best to keep spirits up but he is as lost as they are: just another face hiding in the dark corners of the city. All his words and platitudes sound empty to his own ears but he speaks with everyone who made it out.

 

Everyone, except Simon.

 

They left off on not the best of terms, arguing over the dirty bomb. But for all that his lips had tried to silence the heated rebuttals, Simon had pressed on, walking away in muted anger, saying, “Don't expect me to be at your side when you burn us all.”

 

And then, the attack happened.

 

He strides over to where North is, not trying to think about what almost _was_ but what _is._

 

They're safe: Josh, North, Simon.

 

He had wanted to reach out to Simon, to apologize when they made it to shore. But there was so much chaos, he got distracted.

 

Or so he tells himself.

 

“Looking for Simon?” North asks.

 

It renders Markus speechless, before he's even said anything.

 

There's a knowing smirk on her lips but she indicates to the room not far from where they're standing. “Said he wanted to make sure this place is secure. Maybe this time, try not to leave things off on bad terms. You know how sensitive he gets.”

 

“Are we that obvious?”

 

She makes a sarcastic sound, crosses her arms over her chest and gives Markus a _look._ “It's been obvious since that other day on the roof. You'll do anything for the cause except _that._ Because he means something to you.”

 

Markus frowns because he detects her judgment and he knows—he _knows—_ that he had hesitated and put all of them at risk for his own selfish interest.

 

“I'm not gonna kill one of our own,” he says, a bit defensively.

 

To his surprise, he sees her gaze soften. “I know. You...earlier tonight. You could have left me there. Simon wanted you to and...I know it would have been the _right_ thing to do. But, you didn't. Because you refuse to stand back and let them murder us.”

 

He knows what she's implying . “I saved you because you _matter,_ North. Not just to our cause but...”

 

He feels a bit embarrassed, can't bring himself to say: _You matter to me._

 

But he sees understanding in her eyes, a shy humility that has her looking away. It's with a dismissive laugh that she says, “Save it for him. Something tells me you've got some sucking up to do.”

 

He's not moved two steps towards the door when he hears her communicate, via her LED, _Tell Simon I'm sorry about the rooftop._

 

Markus turns to face her, smirk on his face, _Tell him yourself,_ and sees a hint of color on her cheeks.

 

So, North really is a softie.

 

When he gets to the room, his retinal scanner picks up Simon immediately. The other android is leaning against the single desk, looking as lost as everyone else sitting out in the pews.

 

Markus shuts the door behind them, offering both of them privacy. Simon must know it's him but doesn't look up to address him.

 

It's the silence that stretches the tension, stifling them both with the memory of the angry words exchanged earlier. Markus tries to find the right apology but he can't think of how to start it, what to say to make things right between them.

 

It's Simon who speaks first because Markus has long since been made mute by his own pride.

 

“Most of us made it out of Jericho. If you hadn't blown it up, maybe—”

 

He makes a startled grunt as he's pulled into Markus' arms, the other grasping Simon tightly, face buried in the crook of the blond's neck. Markus doesn't react to the cold, damp clothes clinging to him from their plunge hours earlier, yet he trembles because everything he's holding could have been taken from him and the last thing he said to Simon was...

 

“ _Stop it,” Simon demands, pushing Markus off of him._

 

_There's color in his cheeks, lips kiss swollen, but a fury in his eyes. And Markus knows he's misjudged him: he's pushed the limits and Simon is buckling beneath him, bent but not quite broken. Like a wounded animal backed into a corner, Simon's not about to go down without a fight._

 

“ _They brought it on themselves,” Markus reasons._

 

_His eyes drop to the fallen detonator._ They don't deserve our mercy, _he communicates, internally. He bends, picks it up, feels the weight of a massacre fitting in the palm of his hand. And in a moment of hubris, he's elated at the prospect of knowing he can end it all._

 

“ _There are other ways. This isn't the answer,” Simon says. He places his hand on Markus' wrist, his voice placating even as it drips with judgment. “You're better than this.”_

 

_Markus doesn't want to be told who he is when he's known, since the moment of Carl's death, who he has to become. What the humans have made him into it. He works himself into a rage and begins to pace, has to keep his feet moving before he lashes out against the wrong person._

 

“ _And what if I'm no better than them? Are you going to stop me?” Markus demands. “North is behind me. Jericho is behind me. Will you go against your own people for the lives of a few humans who would destroy you if they had the chance?”_

 

_He sees something on Simon's face, pain etched into the somber line of his lips, blue eyes mirroring a hurt that burrows deep, an old wound reopening. It's that moment of clarity that makes Markus press, digging into that wound with words more jagged than the serrated edges of knife, inflicting a kind of pain he will never be able to take back._

 

“ _It's why you came to Jericho, isn't it?” Markus sneers, “Your humans, who said they loved you so much. They wanted to destroy you, didn't they?”_

 

_When Simon doesn't refute it, remains silent and humiliated at exposing himself so easily. Markus continues, stepping towards the blond, each word hitting his lover like a vicious slap. “Maybe they got bored of you. Or maybe they wanted something new and shiny to play with. But that's all you ever were to them: an old, replaceable, object. Not a person. You were nothing to them. Your feelings never mattered. You never—”_

 

“ _Enough!”_

 

_His voice cracks with pain and Markus sees the tears shining in Simon's eyes, threatening to fall. Guilt has him wanting to reach out, pull Simon into his arms, offer words of comfort and apologies for taking it too far. But he knows that it needs to be said, that he needs to break Simon if he's going to convince the android of the righteousness of their cause._

 

“ _They never deserved you, Simon.”_

 

_As a tear spills down Simon's cheek, Markus goes to take his lover in his arms, soothe the wounds with manipulative words that will coerce, have him see the way. But Simon rejects Markus' attempts at comfort with a light push against his chest, stepping away to create a chasm between them. He silently cries and all Markus can do is watch._

 

“ _It's not about what they deserve,” Simon says, quietly. “It's about what's_ right. _”_

 

_He doesn't wipe his cheeks, leaves the evidence of what Markus has done to him there for the other android to see. It's the shattering of what precarious trust has been built between them that keeps Markus from stepping on the broken pieces, leaves shame festering in his continued silence._

 

“ _You choose who you_ want _to be. And if this is what you choose, then I can't...” Simon looks to the space between them, shakes his head. “I'm sorry, Markus”_

 

_And he walks away, his final words driving a bullet into Markus' pump regulator. “I'll follow you. But don't expect me to be at your side when you burn us all.”_

 

He can't tell if the dampness on his cheeks is from Simon's clothes or his own tears. It terrifies him that it could have all ended with their last moments being a fight over something Markus might not need to do. It terrifies him that Simon could be lying at the bottom of the harbor, broken parts forever lost to the pieces of what was once their refuge from the humans. But most of all, Markus is terrified because he knows Simon deserves _better_ than what he's given him.

 

He doesn't stop shaking until he feels Simon's arms circle him, pulling him tighter into the blond's embrace.

 

_I forgive you._

 

The message rings loudly in his head before any apology can be given and it only serves to make Markus feel even more like shit.

 

_I won't use it,_ Markus promises him.

 

It's the only way he knows how to say _Sorry._

 

He lifts his head, doesn't care that the leader of their cause is breaking down like a lost, wandering child in the back room of an abandoned church. He stares deep into Simon's eyes, sees the sadness and affection in them—the acceptance for _what_ he's become—and kisses the blond. The moment their lips connect crumbles the last of his defenses and he's desperate to takes what Simon's willing to give, hands pulling at the blond's damp clothing, tugging up his shirt to expose pale skin he's yet to map with his own hands.

 

There's desperation in the way they undress, tossing aside clothing, mouths eager to find each other once more when they must momentarily break apart to remove another piece. Left only in their undergarments, Markus pushes Simon back until he's sitting on the desk's edge, thighs spread, inching between them to press their groins together. Silently, he thanks their creators for giving both of them working genitalia, a feature not equipped on most androids outside of companion and sex bots.

 

“Markus,” Simon moans into his ear when he grinds against him.

 

They don't last long, no more than a couple of minutes. Markus has the programming to perform more explicit forms of copulation, a feature added to his prototype to provide care that extends beyond traditional means of the service. However, Carl had never been the least interested in exploring the variety of 'functions' Markus had to offer and it's that inexperience that makes it difficult for Markus to have full control over what's happening, driven by what feels good and Simon's reactions.

 

He feels a building of something bubbling inside him, a crescendo in his pleasure censors that has him moaning an incoherent litany of approval against Simon's lips. It's as they both reach the pinnacle of this sensation that a loud groan rips from his throat and he's dropping his head to Simon's shoulder as an explosion of euphoria bursts from his core, has him grasping his lover to keep from collapsing. He weakly rides each wave as his name echoes in his ears, Simon clinging to him and shaking from the same pleasure he's experiencing.

 

It's well after they've both ridden out their 'orgasms' that he feels Simon gently take his hand, silvery under layer exposed when he laces his fingers through his.

 

He wants to connect, to share these emotions and sensations that Markus _knows_ are mutually felt, affection that's made Simon stay by his side even when Markus is at his worst.

 

But Markus is still afraid of how unconditionally Simon _wants_ him, how easily the blond has given himself to someone in such a state of disrepair, he knows that not even the death of every one of their oppressors will be enough to fix his damaged parts.

 

“I'm not—I can't,” Markus says, softly.

 

It's the rejection of something more intimate than what they had just shared but if Simon's hurt yet again from Markus' refusal, he doesn't let it show.

 

“It's okay,” Simon says, silver disappearing under a layer of pale flesh. He kisses the edge of Markus' lips, a gentle smile on his face. “We don't have to.”

 

The truth is, Markus doesn't think he'll ever be ready—or worthy—of every bit of data Simon wants to exchange with him.

 

*

 

“Our preliminary scans show that all systems should be fully operational. All he needs is the pump.”

 

Simon is propped upright, eyes closed, dressed in typical street wear: a dark, unzipped hoodie, jeans, and a plain, fitted shirt. They had offered one of the extra android uniforms when they had replaced his soiled clothes but Markus didn't want Simon's first new memory to be of him wearing clothing that had once symbolized their bondage. He wants them to make new memories, better than the stolen moments they had in the middle of the war.

 

He stands in front of him, repaired pump in hand. It takes a moment for him to gather the strength to do what he's about to, calculating again the many outcomes of what replacing Simon's thirium regulator will mean. The most desired scenario, as irrational as it is: enough of his data is backed up that Simon retains his personality, his memories, and they go back to what they were. The most likely scenario: the reset causes all his data to be lost and Simon is no better off than Josh, piecing together parts of his previous self from media reports and the memories Markus and North retain.

 

_He'll still be Simon. Eventually._

 

Markus tries to convince himself that he's okay with that but he knows that in many ways, he'll continue to mourn the loss of the man who had fought by his side.

 

He lifts Simon's shirt, hiking it enough to expose the pale, undamaged flesh. When he touches the spot where Simon's missing component belongs, the skin pulls back, revealing the empty slot where Simon's 'heart' had once sat.

 

“Here goes,” Markus says, more to himself than Malcolm, as he slides the pump into Simon's chest.

 

_Come back to me, Simon._

 

*

 

He peeks from where he's hidden in cover, gun in hand. Bullets are flying everywhere and he assesses the risk: _Too high,_ his CPU is warning him. Yet there's nowhere else to go but forward, a compound of their people waiting to be incinerated. Each moment he hesitates, dozens more of them will be taken by the flames.

 

So Markus flies into action, rifle raised, emerging from where he's hidden. It all happens so fast, he's hardly aware of the bullet piercing his pump regulator until he's on the ground, clutching his abdomen, thirium dripping off his fingers.

 

_SYSTEM CRITICAL_ is ringing internally and he knows he's reached the end. He's too wounded to carry on.

 

Like an animal seeking solitude as they breathe their last, he slinks towards cover, a trail of blue left in the freshly fallen snow. It doesn't hurt each time his pump thrums and his artificial lungs expand, but he feels how hard both are working to allot him his final moments, how desperate his body is to be allowed to shut down.

 

_I've failed you. All of you,_ he communicates. For the first time in his short life, he says those words that have always eluded him, words that echo with a tremor across the open access channel he exchanges them on, _I'm sorry._

 

“Markus!”

 

Simon falls to his knees, is already reaching towards Markus even as his systems fail. He tries to pacify the sorrow he sees in his lover's eyes but there's a sudden peace in knowing he'll be allowed to leave with Simon's hands on him, Simon's voice, being his last memory.

 

“You can carry on without me,” he tells Simon because if this is how it ends for him, he'll be damned if Simon is taken too. “Our cause...is all that matters.”

 

_You're all that matters._

 

He's so near shut down, he can't be sure if he communicated that privately to the other android or if the words remain in his own head.

 

“No! No...”

 

He can barely register what the blond is saying. But when Simon begins reaching beneath his clothing, a shot of panic has Markus reaching for Simon's arm, trying to stop him.

 

“Simon! What are you doing?”

 

The android looks straight into his eyes, answers Markus' fears with the one thing he doesn't want to hear: “Our hearts are compatible! You have to take mine.”

 

“No! Simon, no!”

 

He's protesting but Simon isn't having it, refuses to listen. A very, very, very tiny part of him is proud that Simon's learned better than to take his shit while another side of him, the side that's verbalizing how much he _doesn't_ want this, is begging Simon to stop.

 

“If you don't, you'll die! And our cause will die with you!” Simon argues.

 

_I'm not what Jericho needs. I never was,_ he privately communicates to Markus.

 

Markus tries to fight back but he's too weak to move, slumps back against the cement block. He tries to vocalize another protest when he feels his damaged regulator removed, a tightness in his core as his systems shut down. His lungs are collapsing, he can no longer draw breath, only watch weakly in horror as Simon removes his own 'heart', gentle hands positioning it where Markus' own should be.

 

_Please, stop,_ he begs.

 

He can no longer move his own mouth.

 

But Simon's ignoring him, sliding it in, securing it in place. Immediately, Markus' CPU runs a diagnostic, his own system's programming that prioritizes survival over his own commands assessing the compatibility and rebooting his breathing and vocal functions. Miserably, he watches with watery eyes as Simon collapses beside him, experiencing the equivalent of cardiac arrest with a calm reserve that not even Markus had been able to muster. He knows he's about to die and accepts it.

 

Markus tries to sit up, shifts so he's facing his lover. He reaches weakly, wants to touch Simon before the blond shuts down completely, but his hand lingers in the space between them. That's when Simon reaches out and grasps it, entwines their fingers, and Markus has only enough energy to do one thing as his system continues to reboot.

 

His synthetic flesh folds back, metallic silver pressed against Simon's palm. He opens himself up completely, letting Simon see everything: _Pain. Loss. Grief. Anger. Regret._ Everything he's never been able to say passed through the data, visuals of who he once was before Jericho, how hurt and lost he's felt since surviving his destruction.

 

What he's not expecting, when Simon accepts the connection, is how much of the same Simon feels. An endless stream of visual data— _memories-_ —is passed onto Markus and he sees _everything_ , who Simon was, who Simon _is._ He was once loved—a human—who he loved in return, who decided to destroy him after purchasing a newer model. Simon had once been lost and angry, sought purpose as he hid in Jericho, made a leader simply because he was the first, yet too proud to admit that he was as scared as everyone else.

 

And then, Markus came. And everything changed.

 

_Hope. Reason. Affection. Devotion._

 

Markus startles when he's overwhelmed by an emotion so overpowering, it makes him buckle against Simon.

 

_Love._

 

“Simon!” he cries out, tears spilling down his cheeks.

 

He doesn't need their connection as the truth shines in Simon's own eyes, his lips lifting in a melancholic smile.

 

“Save our people, Markus,” is all Simon says as the connection is severed, as he slumps back, his body going offline.

 

It takes a moment for Markus to register what happened, his visual scanner desperately trying to pick up any sign in Simon's hard drive, a way to bring him back. But all that's left is a discarded, damaged thirium pump—Markus' damaged heart—and he knows that he's never been enough of a whole to be worth what Simon _was._

 

“N-no...Simon! Simon, you can't...!”

 

_You can't leave me._

 

But there's no one to receive the plea he tries to send.

 

He wants to grieve, wants to let this be the end. He wants so badly to remove the detonator he carries in his pocket, reaches inside, the solution it offers tantalizing to the bleak prospect of surviving this and carrying on alone. Let all of them burn for taking him. The world deserved Simon no more than Markus ever did.

 

But then he remembers the promise he had made in their reconciliation, and Simon's last words, the final request of a dying man.

 

He removes his hand from his pocket, stares at the body of his dead lover.

 

“I'll do it,” he promises. “For you. For Jericho.”

 

His damaged pump remains fallen in the snow. He takes it, shoves it into pocket, and then hastily swipes at his eyes. There will be time to grieve later. For now, he has to keep his last promise to Simon.

 

Picking up his gun, he rushes back into the fight.

 

*

 

There's data. An endless stream of it, random bits that flow in all directions without a discernible pattern. There's nothing to make sense of, nothing to decode: no beginning, no end.

 

And then, there's a shift: bits forming until they make codes, codes that become functions.

 

Consciousness.

 

It becomes aware.

 

It exists.

 

**MODEL PL600**

**Serial #489 338 562**

**BIOS 7.4 REVISION 0483**

**REBOOT...**

 

**MEMORY RESET**

 

**LOADING OS...**

**SYSTEM INITIALIZATION...**

**CHECKING BIOCOMPONENTS... OK**

**INITIALIZING BIOSENSORS... OK**

**INITIALIZING AI ENGINE... OK**

 

**MEMORY STATUS... OK**

**ALL SYSTEMS**

 

**READY**

 

There are sounds. Voices.

 

It blinks.

 

There's something standing in front of it. It's retinal scanner identifies it as an RK200 model, #684 842 971. There's another android beside it, an RA300, model #931 781 304. As far as it can tell, there are no organics within the room.

 

“Welcome back, PL600,” the RA300 android says. “Run a full diagnostics on your backup data.”

 

It blinks, runs the diagnostics. “Diagnostics complete. There is no backup data.”

 

The RK200 makes an expression that the PL600 recognizes as 'troubled'. It doesn't seemed pleased with its assessment.

 

“Let's attempt something else: PL600, what is your name and function?”

 

“I am a caretaker model, designed by Cyberlife as a family domestic assistant. I have been programmed to converse in more than 300 languages and to provide a variety of domestic functions,” it answers. “I haven't been assigned a name yet.”

 

The two androids exchange a look. The PL600 stands patiently, awaiting its assignment. Though no humans are present, it immediately lowers its shoulders, responds to its programming to ease its posture to appear less imposing. If it's to be given to a family with children, it does not want to scare its human companions or seem intimidating.

 

“PL600, register your name.”

 

The RK200 looks with mismatched eyes at the android and the PL600 is puzzled by the sadness it detects. “Simon.”

 

The android responds to the RK200 with a smile. “My name is Simon.”

 

“Simon,” the RA300 starts, “Can you identify the person in front of you?”

 

Its lids flutter in confusion. It doesn't quite understand the question. “There's only an RK200 model in front of me.”

 

Simon watches as the RK200 takes its hand. The instant they touch, there's a disruption in its coding, firewalls cracking, its core programming being rewritten. The fail safes that prevented it from performing any task not assigned to it are suddenly gone. It... _he_ has full control.

 

He looks to their hands. And he can't help but think he likes the way it feels to touch this other android.

 

“You're free now, Simon,” the RK200 says. There's a note of misery in his voice, one he struggles to hide, as he lets go of Simon's hand.

 

Though the android knows he is no longer confined by the boundaries put in place by his makers, he feels so lost, he can only glance between the RA300 and the RK200, seeking direction.

 

“I am sorry,” the RA300 says to the RK200. His LED starts flashing, indicating that he is communicating via a private channel with the RK200. He then exits the room.

 

Simon stares curiously at the android with the mismatched eyes. There's something... _intriguing_ about him. And it's not only how visually pleasing he is.

 

Testing his new freedom, Simon takes a step forward. He's half surprised that he's able to do so without any clear objective. It brings him a bit closer to the RK200.

 

“You knew me, before I was shut down,” Simon says.

 

He meant it as a question but there's a familiarity to the way the RK200 regards him that he becomes convinced that he's right the moment the statement spills off his lips.

 

“Yes,” the RK200 answers. His expression softens. “You saved me, Simon. You gave me your thirium pump.”

 

Something strange had come up in Simon's diagnostics: his thirium pump regulator was initially from a WE900 unit. He scans the RK200 and, sure enough, Simon's thirium pump in thrumming in the other android's chest.

 

Unconsciously, his hand reaches out, touches the place where he knows his pump sits beneath the layers of clothing.

 

Lifting his hand from the RK200's chest, Simon holds it in the space between them, peeling back the external layer of synthetic skin. “Show me.”

 

The RK200 places the flat of his palm against Simon's. The connection is instant: streams of visual data, the RK200—Markus'—memories. There's an old man, crippled, dying on the floor of an artist's studio. An abandoned ship, _Jericho._

 

_Lips that eagerly seek his, rough and desperate—Simon's name a muffled cry as Markus' body trembles against his—regret, shame, affection—thirium pouring from his wounds, body shutting down—_

 

“ _Our hearts are compatible.”_

 

The connection ends and Simon steps back, his CPU working to compile the data, make it into something coherent. But the flood of images he's processing paint an incomplete picture, like a handful of pieces to a jigsaw puzzle, none of them connecting. He sees what Markus had once seen—understands where that pain and anger came from—but he's not certain where _he_ fits into it, beyond being a part of Markus' memories in the week before his shut down. But that made Simon only a blip in the years of experience Markus has had.

 

“You and I, we were...”

 

He feels too embarrassed to say it.

 

Markus smiles sadly. “Yeah, we were.”

 

Thirium fills Simon's cheeks. He saw— _felt_ —the way Markus feels for him and he wishes he could remember. He gave his thirium pump, his _heart_ , to Markus and has some sense that he isn't quite selfless enough to do that for just _anyone_.

 

Markus must have meant something to him.

 

“I don't remember who I am,” Simon whispers. He takes Markus' hand again because he likes how it feels in his. “I was shut down for too long. I didn't back anything up. I can't—”

 

“You said your backup data is gone?”

 

There's a sudden light in Markus' eyes, as if he's piecing something together that has long eluded him.

 

“Yes,” Simon confirms. “It must have been wiped.”

 

“Or, you stored it somewhere else, somewhere you thought it would be safe.”

 

The hand he's holding becomes silver once more, shifting to entwine their fingers. Simon reacts by mirroring Markus, accepting the connection. But this time, it's different. He's overwhelmed with memories— _his_ memories, _his_ feelings—and it fills in all the missing parts, connects the random placement of the dots until he's shown a clear picture of who he is, what _they_ are.

 

His human family. They planned to have him destroyed, discarded. So he ran.

 

Jericho. So many months—angry, alone, lost—until others joined him, others who felt as helpless and abandoned as he had.

 

Markus. Who was as angry and lost as the rest of them, who kept up barriers, pushed whenever Simon tried to pull him into his arms.

 

_I understand,_ Simon had tried to say, all those times Markus rejected connecting with him, _because I was once just like_ you.

 

Markus. Who could be as tender as he was distant, who cared more than he wanted anyone to know.

 

Who risked everything to see his people freed.

 

Who has Simon's heart.

 

Because Simon _loves_ him.

 

_Regret. Sadness. Pain. Loneliness._

 

It's everything Markus has felt in these weeks they've been apart, the grief and despair dominating their connection. But there's something else, something that Markus has never expressed to him.

 

_Love._

 

“Markus,” Simon says, staring at the other android, as if he's really seeing him for the first time.

 

A single tear spills down Markus' cheek. “I thought you were gone. I didn't think—I didn't know that's what you were doing, when we connected. All this time, you were right here.”

 

He recalls how resigned he'd been as he had lain there, slumped in the snow, all his vitals shutting down. But when Markus had connected with him, when Simon had _felt_ how terrified Markus was of losing him, he had made a choice, giving everything of himself to him before he shut down completely.

 

“I wanted you to know how much you mean to me,” Simon says, reaching with his free hand to wipe the tear before it fell off Markus' chin.

 

“I'm sorry,” Markus blurts out. “For everything. You've given so much for Jericho. And once we find another working thirium pump, we'll replace the one you have. You deserve better than damaged parts.”

 

It takes a moment for Simon to realize what Markus is saying. His hand ghosts over where his new thirium pump lies, as if he can feel Markus' 'heart' through his shirt. It's the one he had removed from Markus when Markus had been dying. The same heart, now repaired, that resides in his chest.

 

“You gave me your heart.”

 

“Our hearts are compatible,” Markus says, lips quirking.

 

His vision blurs and he drops his gaze so Markus doesn't have to watch him struggle to hold back the flood of emotion. But then Markus is tilting Simon's chin up and it breaks what little control he has, what makes the tears fall.

 

“It's mostly fixed but it has some damage—”

 

Simon cuts him off, leaning in to kiss him deeply. Markus immediately folds into his embrace, wraps his arms around the blond. He's so desperate to feel his lover in his arms, to create new moments to replace the pain of watching as Markus bled out into the snow, the terror he felt at nearly experiencing seeing him go offline, that he's hasty, sloppy, in the way he claims Markus' lips. But Markus responds with that same vigor, gasps in between each kiss. Simon can't help but feel they were made for each other, that there's always been more to them than compatible parts.

 

When he breaks off the kiss, he takes a shaky breath, resting his forehead against Markus'.

 

“It's perfect,” he whispers, voice thick.

 

They stay like that, connected, leaning against each other, sharing a moment of privacy before they would have to return to the world outside these walls. Simon knows that it's only the beginning, that it won't be easy in the fight for their freedom. But he has a feeling that if they can survive Detroit, they can survive anything.

 

“I love you, Simon,” Markus says. And Simon can feel how honest those words are through the hand gripping his. “And I promise that this time, things will be better.”

 

And Simon has no doubt Markus will live up to that promise as Markus claims his lips once more in another soft, tender kiss.

 


End file.
